


Dreaming and Dark Scheming

by Reckless_Samurai



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: G2 esports, Gen, Halloween, LEC Summer Split, Magical Realism, Psychological Horror, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reckless_Samurai/pseuds/Reckless_Samurai
Summary: The LEC Summer Split should've been simple - play some easy League and start prepping for Worlds. But when Grabbz's memory and draft book start to fail him, well -That's a new problem entirely.





	Dreaming and Dark Scheming

Grabbz wakes up to a splitting headache.

It’s a dizzying few moments as the pounding in his head refuses to recede, fighting the urge to vomit. It takes another moment for him to realise he’s still at the teamhouse, unceremoniously sprawled on the couch in the living room. God, he didn’t drink that much last night, did he? He might’ve had a beer or two - the table’s littered with cans. The team must’ve done movie night, but that doesn’t explain why he stayed over.

His sleuthing’s interrupted by a quiet click from the front door, and Duffman shuffles in, poking his head into the room.

“Morning,” he murmurs, watching Grabbz rub at his eyes. “You feeling alright? Everyone seemed like they were having too much fun last night.”

“I - what?”

Duffman raises an eyebrow. “How much did you drink?”

“Too much, I guess,” Grabbz murmurs uncertainly, as he casts his mind to yesterday. All that comes back to him is desperately begging Caps not to int during scrims, so that isn’t particularly helpful.

His analyst shrugs. “At least we won. The guys are out doing some content stuff, so you can sleep off your hangover for a bit. They’ll be back after lunch. I’m just gonna go do some extra review.”

“Sounds good,” he replies absentmindedly, and Duffman disappears as quietly as he came.

The first thing Grabbz does is open up Twitter, as one is wont to do. 

It’s Sunday.

How did he miss the LEC weekend? Even worse - how in the hell is he not in trouble?

It’s a mad scramble through his WhatsApp history to figure out what happened, but all he finds is a couple of vague congratulatory messages from Carlos. There’s no email from Riot ops about not being on stage, or being drunk, or anything at all. Twitter isn’t particularly helpful -

Pyke and Yuumi? What?

This has to be a joke, right? Someone thought it’d be funny to steal his phone and tweet from his account like a teenager? He’s shaking his head as he opens up the VOD to check and nearly drops his phone in surprise.

That’s not him.

It shouldn’t be, anyway - there’s something that doesn’t seem quite right in his stance, his gait, and _ why the fuck is Jankos on Elise? _ He remembers forbidding that bot lane on Wednesday, and yet here he was, watching Perkz screw up Q Flash. Add that to the blackout, and there’s a strange twist in his gut building, a new headache building in his temples.

Something flickers at the edges of his memory - pain digging into his back, a scent sharp and acrid -

What is going on?

* * *

The first time he can dismiss as some sort of blackout drunkenness, but then it keeps happening. Not every weekend, of course - just enough to be strange, waking up and coming to the scrim house after a weekend of happy games, Talon and Annie and Yasuo/Gragas and Garen, of all things, which were certainly things he didn’t approve of. At least they won most of them.

The nightmares, on the other hand…

“You sure you’re alright?” Duffman asks. “Seems like the hangover’s hitting pretty hard.”

“I’m fine,” he lies.

It's another forgotten weekend and a handful of Nurofen to chase away the headache he's gotten familiar with, but there's something worse about today. He's spent the past fifteen minutes skimming through comms, trying to figure out how the Misfits draft happened at all, before the pulsing in his head had gotten too much to focus on anything. It baffles him. They might be winning, and winning easily, frankly, but there's something unsettling about his missing days, the wry yet collected interviews he doesn't remember doing. He feels like he's losing his mind. There's a building worry at the back of his throat, more so every week, and he wonders when he'll finally snap.

"Something else wrong, then?" asks Duffman.

Grabbz sighs, leaning back in his chair. “I’m just trying to figure out what possessed me to let Soraka through on stage.”

Duffman laughs, pausing the VOD to face him. “I mean, Wunder did make that promise on Twitter.”

“It’s the Trist Annie game all over again, headache and all. At this rate, they'll be unbearable by playoffs,” he groans, leaning back in the chair and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“At least the fans are enjoying it.”

“Just wait until we lose and the accusations of ruining competitive integrity start coming in again.”

“So negative,” Duffman chides. “Your reputation won’t be ruined over one poor draft. It’ll be a process.”

“Thanks, I think?” Before Grabbz can fully understand what he said, the pounding in his head spikes -

When he comes to, Duffman’s hand is on his back.

“You really should see a doctor,” he says, pressing the glass of water into Grabbz’s hand.

“Don’t think I can right now, not with playoffs so close. Besides,” Grabbz adds, voice falsely light in a desperate attempt to turn attention away from his moment of weakness, “I need to save you from having to be on stage again.”

There’s a pause before Duffman says, “Fair enough. No matter what, you should sleep this off - I doubt you’d be much help right now. It's not as if there's much work to do without the boys in, anyway.”

“We still need to lock first seed -”

“I’m pretty sure I can figure out Schalke macro without you,” Duffman tells him, amused, and Grabbz laughs, rising from his chair.

“I know you can. I’m gonna go crash on the couch for a bit, then. Thanks, Chris.”

“Always happy to help,” Duffman says mildly. “We wouldn’t want you to fall apart now, after all.”

* * *

The regular split was over, and with it, most of the madness that plagued him had disappeared as well - it was strange to feel relief in actually remembering what he did on a Saturday, but there it was. The past few weeks have been slow and languid; dreamlike, almost. As if the strangeness of the split is something he could dismiss as stress. But the return of scrims have led to old nightmares, dark rooms, and almost familiar voices, strange ache and pain, and there's a something is beyond wrong, something that feels like it's just waiting to swallow him whole -

“Grabbz,” Jankos whines, spinning around in his chair. “What is wrong with you?”

Grabbz is startled out of his thoughts, suddenly realising that the scrim’s been finished for a few minutes. “Sorry.”

“Seriously, what is going on, Grabbz? It’s like you forgot what League even is,” Wunder snarks at him.

There’s a cough beside him as Duffman stifles a laugh. Grabbz rolls his eyes.

“I can only deal with you idiots for so long before I need a mental break,” he tells the team with a humour he doesn’t really feel. 

The rest of scrims go by without him processing much - he’s pretty sure Perkz and Miky are giggling over some sort of ridiculous Garen/Yuumi counter, but he can deal with that tomorrow. There’s another headache building by the time review’s done, there’s nothing more he wants to do than get home. But -

Perkz closes the door before he can reach it. “We need to talk.”

“I’m fine,” Grabbz lies.

It’s just the two of them left - Perkz tilts his head, eyes strangely dark in the light.

"No you’re not. You’re missing whole weekends, right? Those weird drafts? Everyone’s being... like that to you. Even the casters."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he snaps, ignoring the chill that runs down his spine.

“The same thing has happened before, you know?” 

"This really isn’t funny, Luka -"

"It's not supposed to be. Listen. There’s one thing he’s wanted all these years, and it’s the only thing he hasn’t been able to get. He’ll do anything for it. That’s what his kind are like.”

There’s a hysterical edge to Grabbz’s voice when he asks, “What do you mean _his kind? "_

* * *

When Grabbz wakes up the next day, he’s tempted to call in sick.

It’s a stupid thought, honestly - this is a rational world, after all. Magic and demons aren’t real. He probably just has an alcohol problem. Or he’s getting old at 24? Memory problems can start early, he’s pretty sure. Anything makes more sense than a cursed analyst with overambition.

The thought makes him chuckle as he steps into the scrim room, which is oddly empty for the time of day - just Duffman, who looks up from some early summer Fnatic footage.

“You’re in a good mood. What’s so funny?”

“Just something Luka was telling me yesterday,” Grabbz says offhandedly, tapping his pen against his notebook as he waits for the computer to boot up. “Think he’s been watching too much anime.”

He doesn’t notice Duffman go still. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, possession or demons or something. Who’d believe that bullshit, right?”

“Who would indeed,” replies Duffman flatly.

Grabbz curses as the monitor flashes on, his migraine - he thinks it’s a migraine, at this point - flaring sharp enough for everything to go white -

* * *

“Where the hell are we?” Grabbz asks uncertainly, watching Duffman do… something. 

It’s hard to tell anything, here - hell, he doesn’t even know where he is. The pounding in his head hasn’t receded in the slightest, and he can’t tell if the nausea that’s starting to roll in his stomach is from the headache, or the fear.

“Look, Chris,” he tries again, “there seems to be a misunderstanding somewhere -”

In a breath, Grabbz is on the ground, the wind knocked out of him and a foot at his throat.

“I think you should stop talking,” Duffman says, Scottish lilt keeping his words oddly upbeat, “or I’ll take care of it for you.”

Grabbz opens his mouth, before closing it again and nodding, trying to fight the panic ballooning in his chest. There’s something off about this smile, in the dark, far too wide, far too… feral, almost, like a cat that found its’ dinner.

“Well, look at us. Honestly, I’m surprised this little experiment worked out as well as it did. Knowing management, though, that doesn’t guarantee me a thing, so hopefully this is enough. But it's hard to manage those sorts of things during a split, you know? Everything's so busy, there's all this media attention - it's just not worth it, really. But after Athens, it’d be manageable. New scrim environment, being gone for a week… it’d hide any slip ups.” 

It’s with a strange, dawning horror that Grabbz realises what’s happening, and Duffman smiles again, all easy motions and sharp teeth.

“There you go. Knew you were smart enough to figure it out.”

There’s a brief moment where they just stare at each other, the mounting pain in Grabbz’s skull making it hard to even see the shadows in front of him, to focus on the revelations that are about to be carved into his chest. 

“You really think anyone's gonna miss you? And I mean actually miss you. Notice it wouldn’t _ really _ be you. Humans are easy to fool, all too worried about their own small things to see anything really meaningful. Although - I did play you for a split. It’s not that hard, apparently.”

Duffman presses down on his windpipe, again, and there's not even air left in his lungs to scream. 

“I’m sorry it had to be like this, really,” he tells Grabbz unconvincingly. “You were quite likable in the end.”

“Worlds -” Grabbz chokes out, and it’s enough to make Duffman pause. He takes his foot off, ever so slightly, and he leans in as Grabbz gasps for air.

“Talk.”

“Just give me Worlds. I’ll leave after, I’ll declare free agency, I’ll fucking - I’ll get myself fired - you can have it -”

There’s a sense of incredulity as Duffman asks, “Are you trying to make a deal with me?”

“Yes - fine - just don't - don't kill me - please -”

There's a point where nothing matters more than surviving, where all common sense flies out the window; and it’s when this warped reflection of his analyst is crushing his fucking throat, now’s not the time to worry over how any of this even works, he can’t breathe -

* * *

He wakes up with a start in London.

Bootcamp has only just started, but progress is going well, despite the Damwon scrims. It feels like a fresh start, almost, a chance to redeem themselves after that messy series against Fnatic back in Athens. 

There’s a good chance for us to actually win Worlds, he thinks, with some sort of warped humour, and he can’t tell if he should be grateful or terrified. But for now, there’s nothing to worry about. 

The boys are happy, Groups are coming soon, and everything is perfect.


End file.
